


The human emotion is a very dangerous thing

by Minimosca



Series: Steve and Bucky summer Bookclub [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Stucky book club challenge, This is not Happy, Winter Soldier ! Bucky, Winter Soldier ! Steve, no one die though, this is blood and guts and doesn't end well, well people die but we don't know them so WHO CARES amirite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1958931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minimosca/pseuds/Minimosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve kills and Steve serves. Steve forgets and Steve doesn't know 'human'.<br/>But sometimes something in Bucky messes with his brain.<br/>It would be memories if he had any.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The human emotion is a very dangerous thing

**Author's Note:**

> Second (and LATE) fanfiction for the Stuck Bookclub with the prompt "Winter Soldier ! Steve" 
> 
> I got the idea after a conversation with Meylora about Winter Soldier ! Steve and what was just screaming painful headcanons at each other became a real three pages fanfiction. Hum I got very little control over my writing. 
> 
> This work is HEAVILY inspired by Counting Bodies (Like Sheep)by Roane (like really heavily) and you should go read their story because it's AMAZING. Like seriously, if you liked what I wrote, you're going to drool over their fanfiction, it's perfect. 
> 
> Also a big thank you to BarqueBatch (Who's stories are absolutely amazing too, go read heeeer... just go my child, you won't regret it. ) for correcting me and being awesome in general ! ♥
> 
> I wrote that while listening to "The human Emotion" by Tragedy Machine, and I can only recomend you to listen to it, it's a beautiful song and... uh. winter Soldier feels go crazy with it !

He would be glad... if he could feel things. Emotions.

 

Glad for his existence to be an accumulation of violence. Brain and blood on the concrete floor, flesh and bones torn apart on dark mud. Nothingness, pain that makes him new and calm, wipes him from undesirable thoughts.

 

He lingers for the electricity as much as he fears it, his brain screaming in agony each time they warm his body again. Restart the machine that just wants to sleep, and doesn't exist.

But again he forgets everything else other than the weight of weapons in his hands, the smell of leather tight around his skin. The fight moves like dancing through the bodies he takes apart (How does he know dancing? He has flashes of red and blue skirts, neatly tied hair and smiling red lips), clearing his path through every shade of red, bullet holes, and knife wounds.

 

It doesn't matter; there is no place in his carefully calibrated brain for anything else but the orders.

Find the target. Finish the mission. Come back. Pain. Ice. Warm. Pain. Find the target. Finish the mission.

 

His moves are so perfectly in synch with Bucky's he believes they were created at the same time, for the same purpose: reshaping the world together. One murder at time, one blood ribbon after the other, they will serve and clean and shape with violence. Like they were shaped. Until they can finally go to sleep.

 

Except sometimes missions take longer, or they don't receive orders fast enough. Or _he_ doesn't say it right away when they are done with the target. Without knowing why. He just needs to look at his double with dark hair for a little longer. And want and need are strange and foreign.

He's torn between drinking in his image and shutting down every thought, because the human emotion is a very dangerous thing.

 

He lets his eyes linger on the curve of the metal arm and shivers from the high he feels, the sense of danger he doesn't get with the hunting and the killing. It is not allowed and he gets put down when he goes against the rules. With needles, and blows, and more electricity. He thinks so. He doesn't remember, but unpleasant echoes of pain lying on the inside of his brain are like a glowing warning sign.

 

His breath hitches when he puts a hand into the dark hair and Bucky doesn't even look surprised, looking at him with calm if not trust. They were not made to destroy each other; he knows Steve won't hurt him.

He's speaking into his cellphone, and Steve hears the words ‘end’ and ‘meeting’ and ‘minutes’ and he looks once again at the cracked door at the back of his mind, behind scientists’ voices and orders. He almost pushes to see what's behind.

 

But men in uniform are already escorting them. Time does not exist when he's not hunting. Time is a thing for target path and trajectory calculation, to survive when blood floods out of his skin and when Bucky's eyes turn grey from exhaustion. He doesn't know how he knows because it never happened.

 

Time doesn't exist and he's back in the facility in just the blink of an eye, warning signs still glowing red against his wants.

He shakes and doesn't answer the questions he is asked and Bucky just looks at him. So calm. Blue eyes cold and cautious not to show anything.

 

And he snaps. He goes for this squared jaw, his hand gripping that throat because contact is violence and violence is all he knows. Something stings. Something hits him hard, several times, and he has holes in his arms that will never match the holes in his head. People are shouting but Bucky’s eyes are still so silent he wants to scream.

 

He is screaming.

 

But drugs finally kick in, making his body heavy and limp, making his body not his body just like his mind is not his mind, and he panics because he will drown into nothingness soon. Nothingness without silent eyes. Nothingness that tastes like fear instead of safety.

 

Something is broken, the door cracks a bit further as he goes down like a puppet, mouth managing to brush Bucky's just slightly before he hits the ground.

 

His lips move but he's not screaming anymore, he is lost like a child, doesn’t understand a thing. A very old child, with a lot of blood on his hands. He's not screaming and he's clinging to the only things he knows, bright images of New York burning like white iron into his mind. Unknown, foreign, so terrible with feelings that flood his veins along with the drugs. And he repeats _hail hydra_ ,voice hoarse and quiet, until the light goes out because it's the last thing he knows and even Bucky's empty eyes looking down upon him with nothing inside don't feel right.

**Author's Note:**

> Whispers : The "hail hydra" thing was Meylora's idea, and I just stole it because I'm a bad person.


End file.
